


Doing It Rotten Your Own Way

by leupagus



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Tailor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay,” Nathan said, striding into the recovery room, "So. A bodyguard. You're getting one."</p><p>*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: As of October 2013, this story has been officially abandoned. I am sorry to have to do this, but while I still faithfully watch and love POI, I have effectively left the fandom and do not forsee finishing this. If I do pick this back up, I will finish writing it *before* posting so as to prevent this from happening again, since I know how maddening WIPs can be when they're never finished. Again, my apologies.
> 
> *
> 
> This story is entirely the brainchild of elandrialore, from her [excellent and amazing idea](http://elandrialore.tumblr.com/post/43211679940/im-only-up-to-2x02-but-i-want-all-the-person-of) that I stole without a qualm in my heart. You're my inspiration, babycakes.
> 
> With further thanks to [lazulisong](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulisong/pseuds/lazulisong), [worset](http://worset.tumblr.com/), [twentysomething](http://archiveofourown.org/users/twentysomething/pseuds/twentysomething), and [rageprufrock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock): for tea, for know-how, for Andre, and for everything else.
> 
> *

 

> **  
> 1678**

“Okay,” Nathan said, striding into the recovery room, "So. A bodyguard. You're getting one."

Harold stopped trying to decipher his chart ( _GSW to abdomen, GSW to the leg_ , something about hemorrhaging and bone splinters) and scowled up at him. "How did you even get in?" he demanded. The hospital, or at least this wing of it, was cordoned off for its High Priority Patient ( _Harold Wren,_ the chart said, _53 y/o, 5'7", 164 lbs, admit. 7/31/07, blue, brown, any medical staff found to have brought a cell phone or other electronic device within a hundred feet of Mr. Wren will be charged with conspiracy and fined $2,500_ ) and quiet, corridors dimmed and footsteps hushed. Harold wasn't quite sure about the time ( _3 mg morphine, delivered every four hours or as needed_ ) but the windows were dark: past visiting hours.

"I bought the hospital, is how," Nathan snapped, and plopped himself into the visitor's chair. He looked awful.

"You look awful."

Now it was Nathan's turn to scowl. "You know, I'd blame the drugs you're on, but I know that was just you being you." He puffed out a breath. "My best friend got shot a few days ago. Takes it out of a guy."

"Who — oh," Harold realized.

"I'm going to choose not to be mortally offended, here," Nathan said, leaning forward and plucking the chart out of Harold's hands. "You're not supposed to be reading that."

"It's paper," Harold pointed out. "I doubt that it counts as sufficient technology to violate the conditions of my bail."

"Let's not take chances, shall we?" Nathan put the chart back at the foot of the bed, fiddling with it until it hung correctly. When he looked back, he was very serious. "Did  you get a good look? At whoever shot you?"

Harold tried to think. But instead he remembered: “I thought you weren't speaking to me.”

“Yeah, and I'm still not," Nathan said, fiddling with his cuffs. "But we're putting that on pause."

"You didn't speak to me after I got _arrested_!" Harold protested. "Now, just because I've got a—"

"A _hole in your gut_ , Harold. You got _shot_!"

“You’re so melodramatic. I distinctly recall you vowing to never speak to me when I turned myself in—"

"When you lied to federal agents—"

"And you were melodramatic about it then, too.”

"I think a little melodrama was called for, under the circumstances."

Harold scoffed. "We both know there wasn't any other choice."

“Oh, _here_ we go," Nathan said, throwing up his hands. “You really want to have this fight right now?”

“Are you afraid that I’ll win?”

But Nathan just sighed. “Nobody wins this kind of fight, Harold.”

There were any number of things to say, Harold knew, even if he couldn’t put the words in the right order. But they all boiled down to: “If the three hundred and forty-seventh apology makes any difference, Nathan, then I’m sorry.”

It was quiet, for a while; Harold was sure he couldn’t have fallen asleep, but when he blinked there was light coming in through the windows and Nathan was still sitting there, reading a ragged copy of _Bunnicula_ , his tie loosened, the laces on one of his ridiculous shoes undone. Harold watched him, not moving, and thought that if he'd only had one friend to choose (and in thirty years there hadn't been any others, no one who could keep up or catch on) he would've chosen Nathan. Because after everything, Nathan was still there, angry at him no doubt, but sitting at his bedside and buying hospitals for the chance to lose  arguments with him just like they'd done since sophomore year. Three hundred and forty-seven apologies were no cost at all for someone like that.

Nathan looked up; his eyes were bloodshot, but he smiled, closed the book with his finger caught between pages, and leaned back in the chair. “I’ll forgive you,” he said, “On one condition.”

“Oh, God,” Harold muttered, and went back to sleep.

 

 

 

> **1721**

“I’m curious: what does my spleen _do_ , exactly?” Harold asked Janine, gasping for breath as he lurched between the parallel bars. It turned out that the John Le Carre and Ian Fleming novels he’d consumed as a boy had been full of it, and a bullet to the abdomen was something fairly serious that required more than a ragged button-down shirt to tie around the midsection and a strong drink to recover from. His right thigh, where the bone had been shattered by the bullet with a kind of horrific efficiency, was agony; the doctor had told him that he would always walk with a limp, nothing he could do about it.

Janine had smacked her gum at him when he told her that the first day, prodded him on the shoulder, and said, “That there is pussy talk, okay?”

Now, Janine frowned at his posture. “Don’t hunch up,” she advised. “ _Your_ spleen clogs up our biohazard bin, far as I know.”

“But what’s its function?” Harold persisted, because he’d found that talking was one of the only ways to relieve the endless, grueling, strangely boring pain that he seemed to be in every second of the day.

“Why?” Janine asked, blowing a bubble with her violently pink gum. “You thinking of buying a new one?”

“I’d just like to know what it is my body’s no longer doing properly,” Harold said.

“Well, that’s a pretty long list right now,” Janine said, because she was truly one of the most unkind people Harold had ever encountered. Harold would have said as much, but as he tried to turn around on the parallel bars he fell. She managed to catch him by the arm and steady him.

But only for a moment. “Step away from him, ma’am,” Sven growled, grabbing at Harold’s other arm and yanking hard enough to dislocate something.

“Yes,” Harold said, managing to hold onto the bars long enough to extricate himself from the iron grip of the man Nathan thought was qualified to guard him day and night. “Thank you, Sven, there’s really not a danger here.”

“Never be too careful, sir,” Sven said earnestly.

Janine was still frozen with her hands up, staring at Sven with wide eyes. After Sven backed away, she shot Harold a look. “You have got to be shitting me, dude,” she said.

 

 

 

> **1722**

“Sven might be a tad… overeager,” Harold said. He could hear music on the other end of the line, people laughing. There was some kind of award ceremony tonight, he remembered. IFT was being honored for excellence in innovation or something similar. “I’d rather be followed around by someone who didn’t try to shoot my physical therapist.”

“Fine,” Nathan sighed, “I’ll see if I can find someone a little less eager to save your life.”

 

 

 

> **1757**

“You’ve lost weight,” Andre said, sounding displeased.

Harold frowned, looked down at where Andre was pinning his waist. “Yes, I assumed as much when my trousers no longer fit properly,” he said, patient. “Hence this visit.”

Andre made a tsking sound, but didn’t elaborate, which Harold took as his cue to straighten once more, as much as he could. He was walking now, but standing for any length of time seemed like an exercise in endurance by itself. Andre, to his credit, worked quickly, pressing marks on his slacks with chalk and frowning.

“It’s no good, Harry,” he said, holding out a hand to help Harold off the dais. “You’ve completely ruined the lines with this physical therapy nonsense of yours. Not to mention none of your suits go with that charming new fall fashion accessory.” He gestured to the cane leaning against the wall.

“I’m sorry my violent physical trauma has interfered with your aesthetics, Andre,” Harold said, sitting himself carefully down on one of the overstuffed armchairs facing the dais. “Next time someone tries to kill me, I’ll let them know of your objections.”

“Serves you right,” Andre sniffed, although he said it without heat. Besides, Andre had posted one of the now-ubiquitous Shepherd Fairey posters with a deeply unflattering image of Harold and the word OBSERVE on his front window; Andre had scribbled a message in black marker so that it now read _“big brother OBSERVEs that you need a new suit!”_ Andre gestured with his chin at Harold’s leg. “Did they ever find out who did it?”

Harold shook his head. There were things he could say - that the police had no leads; that the detective in charged seemed to be reading off a card when he said “We’re gonna find out who did this, sir;” that the new bodyguard Nathan had picked seemed to be about seventeen and was, at this moment, reading something initialed “FHM” at the front of the store and hadn’t so much as looked up when Andre had jabbed Harold with a pin five minutes ago.

But strangely, he didn’t mind. The paranoia ground into him for so many decades was being slowly replaced by a sense of bizzarre, paradoxical freedom; after six months in jail and four weeks in a hospital, he was beginnign to realize he’d come out into a world different from the one he’d left.

This world was still being observed, but it also observed itself; admired itself. The newspapers and magazines that arrived every morning at Harold’s door had articles (and more revealingly, advertisements) about the ways in which lives were shifting, if not always happily. It seemed that Harold’s arrest and pending trial were no more than the long-awaited signal of a reality that people had already half-known, half-accepted. This morning a little girl on the subway had asked him if he was the Eyeball Man, who watched everybody and made sure she was safe at night, and her mother had laughed.

It wasn’t the dystopia Harold had pictured at all.

But instead he said to Andre, “I suppose this means you have to make me an entirely new wardrobe?”

“Oh hell no,” Andre said decisively, taking the other seat. “For one thing, I haven’t got the time, and for another, your suits make me fall asleep every time I’ve got one on the dummy.”

“You’re the one who sold me those suits,” Harold pointed out.

Andre put a hand over his eyes. “Yes, because if you’ll recall you came into my shop — into my _place of business_ — wearing _corduroys_ , Harold. And the only time I showed you how to fold a pocket square you looked at me like I was speaking Greek. Baby steps were clearly needed at the time.”

“At the time?” Harold asked. “What about now?”

“Now? What _about_ now? You really so bored that you’d come in here for two hours a day leaning on that, by the way, hideous crutch thing of yours, just so you can have some pants that don’t make you look like you have crepe ass?”

Harold felt his eyebrow lift. “Crepe ass.”

“Trust me,” Andre said. “Don’t you have other — I don’t know — criminal things to do?”

Harold looked down at his hands; they’d balled into fists, pressed into his knees. He unclenched them, flexed his fingers; a few joints popped. “Strangely enough,” he said, “I seem to have time to spare, these days.”

There was a long — uncharacteristically long — silence from Andre, and Harold glanced up; Andre was chewing his bottom lip.

“Andre?”

“All right, all _right_ ,” Andre said, as though he were ending an argument with someone, “Fine. Every morning, seven on the dot. I like a sencha green tea from the kiosk on the corner, make sure Gary fills it right to the top. We’ll start you on—“ he hauled himself to his feet, muttering, and disappeared in the back.

Taylor — or perhaps Dylan, or Brayden — looked up from his magazine. “Ready to split?” he grunted.

“Ah. Not just yet, I think,” Harold said. He was about to get up to follow Andre when the man himself came bustling back, carrying a stack of books.

“These are all shit,” he said, dumping them on the table by Harold’s right hand, “But read them anyway. We’ll start you on tracing. _Maybe_ cutting in a few weeks. Maybe. I’m not making any promises, all right?”

“Um. All right,” Harold said, blinking at the books. They were titled things like “History of the Cravat” and “Lapels Through the Ages.”

“And if you bring that thing back with you,” Andre said, jabbing his finger toward where Trevor or Brandon was staring at a picture of a woman in a bikini, “Deal’s off. This is no place for children.”

“What deal is this, exactly?” Harold asked. “Are you — offering me a job?”

Andre rolled his eyes, helped Harold to his feet. “You, twinkie,” he said, snapping his fingers and Tristan or Darren, “Take these. And _you_ ,” he added, turning on Harold in a blink of an eye, “Aren’t getting paid a red cent. Go prostitute yourself below the Williamsburg Bridge like the rest of the FIT grads if you want to make money. Here you’ll be an intern and like it.”

“I’m not that good at doing what I’m told,” Harold warned.

“That’s the beauty of being a tailor, Harold,” Andre beamed at him as though he’d said something clever. “We tell _other_ people what to do.”

 

 

 

> **1788**

“Sorry for the timing, Mr. Wren.” Detective Carter had a smile on her face, the grimacing sort that Harold always connected with forced cheer, though he wasn’t sure how universal that was. “I was hoping you had a few minutes to talk.”

“Come in, Detective,” Harold said. She stepped inside and he shut the door, though not before a few flashbulbs went off.

“They out there all the time?” she asked, hooking her thumb over her shoulder.

Harold shrugged. “Difficult to say. Normally I find alternate means of exiting the premesis, so it’s not often that I encounter them.”

“Alternate means?” Carter asked.

“I assure you, Detective, I don’t shimmy down any drain pipes,” Harold said, unable to keep a note of sharpness out of his voice. “After the events of this summer, I think you can hardly blame me for avoiding the front door.”

Carter seemed — not taken aback — but thoughtful. “I guess I can’t. You could’ve moved, though. Lots of people’d figure, you get shot on your stoop, might be time to find a new stoop.”

“If I were like ‘lots of people,’ Detective, I doubt either of us would be here,” Harold said. “But since I'm not allowed to leave the city, it seemed pointless. Besides, perhaps by next year I’ll be just another New York oddity.”

He didn’t hold out a great deal of hope for that, and Detective Carter’s smile turned real, if wistful. “Yeah. Perhaps you will,” she said softly. She looked around. “Nice place you’ve got, anyway. I can see you not wanting to leave.”

“Thank you.”

“Did the FBI have to yank out all the security cameras you had in here before you were allowed back in?” She asked it in that same even tone, and Harold had to catch himself before responding automatically. She really was an excellent policewoman.

“I’m sure you could ask them, rather than coming all the way uptown, Detective. It’s Thanksgiving.”

“And yet here you are, all by yourself,” Detective Carter noted.

“I’m not by myself,” Harold said. “You’re here. Without your partner, I see.”

“Detective Stills had a family thing up in Yonkers,” she said. “I just wanted to clear up a few details about the shooting.”

Harold nodded, though he felt at a loss of what to do in a social situation like this one. He’d never hosted a police officer. “Would you... care for something to drink? Apparently I’m not allowed alcohol, but I have tea.”

Carter opened her mouth — to refuse, Harold was almost certain — but instead she looked around again, and said, “Sure. That'd be nice.” She was quiet following him down the hall, the swish of her coat a counterpoint to the click of her shoes. She settled herself on a stool at the kitchen island while Harold filled the kettle.

“I take it there’s been little progress on the matter of the shooting,” Harold said, and set the kettle on the aga, lighting the burner.

When he turned back, Carter was still staring at the stove. “What is that thing?” she asked, her voice going somewhat higher than it usually did.

“It’s an aga,” Harold said. “My case?”

“There’s been, uh, little progress, like you said,” Carter said, giving it one last dubious look. “You said it was a black towncar that drove up and started shooting, and those aren’t exactly thin on the ground in Manhattan. We followed it four blocks and then it was gone.”

Harold pulled out the teapot and ran it under hot water, setting it on the counter to warm up. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I can at least partially blame myself for getting shot during rush hour.”

Carter’s laugh startled him. “Yeah, next time somebody tries to kill you, do it off peak hours, would you?”

Harold turned toward the pantry so she wouldn’t see his smile, picked out a selection of tea -- Earl Grey, a nice Souchong, an oolong that was decent enough and the only one he had at the moment. “Do you have a preference, Detective?" he said, placing them on the island in front of her.

Carter frowned at the tins and said, "Earl Grey,” as though — _trying to pick someone out of a lineup,_ was the phrase that came to mind. Inappropriate under the circumstances, no doubt.

“Excellent.”

“So you holding up okay?” she asked. “The paparazzi, and... whatever. They’re not getting you down?”

“Well, as I said, I usually leave my apartment by a different route, so I rarely have to deal with them. And honestly it’s my lawyers who are proving to be a greater intrusion. But to answer your real question: no, this wasn’t a fake assassination attempt in order to garner sympathy from the public.”

To her credit, Carter didn’t pretend ignorance. “Never said it was.”

“No, but it’s obvious that’s the angle you’re looking at.” Harold found a pair of matching cups and saucers near the back of the cupboard — anniversary presents to his parents from an aunt, he thought. He ran the cups under warm water for a moment and set them on saucers. “You’d be a fool not to — a controversial public figure, shot on his own stoop the day he posts bail. I assume you’ve checked my bank statements, to see if I hired any hitmen recently.”

“I’ve read up on you enough not to pay much attention to what your bank statements say.”

Harold picked up the teapot and poured it out into the sink, then refilled it, swirling the water around and pouring it out again. “And I furthermore assume that’s why there’s always an unmarked police car sitting outside my home or work twenty-four hours a day. Tell me, are they there to prevent something from happening to me again, or are they there just to see if something _does_ happen to me again?”

“They can’t do both?” she asked, half-smiling.

They were interrupted by the kettle; Harold measured out the tea and poured the water into the pot. Carter just watched him with steady eyes. Harold had grown used to that in the past several months; gazes caught on him now, where before they would have slipped off his shoulders. But Carter was searching for something, and as he waited for the tea to steep he wondered if she'd find it, if whatever she wanted from him was clearer to her than to himself.

When he poured out the first cup and handed it to her, she didn’t ask for milk or sugar, but wrapped her hands around the teacup. She had delicate hands, her fingernails painted a pale pink but chipped slightly. She wore an engagement ring but no wedding band, and it clinked against the porcelain of the cup.

“I also pulled your partner Nathan Ingram’s bank statements,” she said at last.

Harold felt his eyebrows lift. “I admit I’d be surprised to learn that Nathan hired someone to bump me off,” he admitted, taking a sip of his tea. It tasted bitter — he'd let it steep too long.

“I’m half-tempted to lie just to see what surprise would look like on you,” Carter said.

All at once Harold felt tired, the kind he got when he’d stayed at an office party for too long or worked three all-nighters in a row. “Why did you come here tonight?” he asked, too blunt; Nathan would have sighed heavily in disapproval.

But Carter didn’t sigh. She sipped her tea and thought over his question; if she found the tea bitter, it didn't show. “I just want to know why a man who’s hated by half the world and worshipped by the other half doesn’t seem all that worried about the half that wants him dead.”

“Why would I worry,” Harold said, “When I’ve got so many people keeping me safe?”

 

 

 

> **1789**

It was a lie, of course; Nathan had fired Tyler and assured Harold that he’d hired someone new, but Harold had seen no evidence of anyone new. He had to admit to at least some relief; the bodyguards had been a nuisance, not a comfort, and Harold couldn’t imagine there was anything one of Nathan’s hired hands — or the extremely grumpy police officers, come to that — could do to save him, should another attempt come. Instead he found several high-security car services that would take him from his home to Andre’s, and Andre only lifted an eyebrow when Harold paid for an upgrade the the shop’s front door and windows.

“Bullet-proof glass. Very post-apocalyptic chic,” he said, and went back to berating Harold for cutting a piece of muslin incorrectly.

Still, when Harold came into the shop on Black Friday, with Andre’s vile tea faithfully in hand, he felt a certain degree of good cheer. The Christmas season, as ruthlessly commercial as it was, had always been his favorite time of year in New York. Already lights festooned the trees along Central Park, and the driver this morning had been listening to one of several radio stations that had given itself over entirely to Christmas carols.

The shop was dark — not unusual, at this hour — and Harold busied himself turning on lights, setting up the work for the day. By eight-thirty, however, there was no sign of Andre.

“Please tell me you’re not at the shop,” Andre answered the phone.

Harold paused, considering his options. “I take that to mean you’re not coming in today?”

“Harold, I am lying in bed with an Olympic figure skater. You tell me if I’m coming in today.”

There was a laugh on the other end of the line. “I’ll see you Monday, then. I’ll be here today if you need me — I want to work on the English blazer.”

“You really can’t help being a nerd, can you,” Andre sighed. “All right, knock yourself out, but if you touch that superfine Merino we got in last week I’m going to shoot you in the other leg.”

Harold turned the radio on and settled down to work. Understanding patterns wasn’t all that difficult, once you grasped the fundamental spatial concepts, but it was a challenge, and Harold had almost forgotten the delicious stretch of the mind as it learned something new. For years — decades — it had been computers that had fascinated him, machinery that almost touched humanity in its evolving intelligence. He’d assumed, during that long hell of his incarceration, that whatever would replace that would be ashes in comparison. But he’d been wrong, again. It seemed to be happening more often, this past year.

He was interrupted, some while later, by the blaring of the telephone. His leg had gone stiff and leaden, treacherous. He managed to hobble to the counter and grab at the receiver. “Hello?”

There was a pause, then, “Harold? Are you all right? What’s the matter?”

“I’m fine, Nathan,” Harold said, propping his elbows on the counter and leaning most of his weight on them. His leg throbbed; he looked at the clock. Past six — he should have taken something at noon. “I forgot to take my medication on time, that’s all.”

“You sound awful.”

“Is that just you being you?” Harold asked.

Nathan ignored him, as usual. “What are you doing there, anyway? Andre said—“

“‘Andre said’?” Harold repeated. “You’re on a first-name basis with my new employer?”

“Well,” Nathan said, not sounding in the least embarrassed, “He did call me for references. I’m afraid I had to be pretty honest.”

“Really.”

“Yep.” Harold could practically see Nathan in his mind’s eye, leaning back in his chair, feet kicked up on his desk. “Told him you were stubborn, likely to talk back to the customers, probably won’t follow directions.”

“No doubt you told him I’d be better off in the back rooms,” Harold said. He meant it as a joke, was smiling as he said it, but Nathan didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Nathan?”

“I never thought you were better off in the back rooms,” Nathan said.

For a moment Harold forgot about his leg, tried to straighten up, but the pain shot back at him and he clenched his teeth around the noise.

“Harold? Harold!”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“You — you should go home,” Nathan said at last. “Get some rest. Take your meds. Will wants to see you this weekend. Come by tomorrow sometime?”

Harold nodded. “All right.”

Dark had already fallen, and the wet pavement reflected up the streetlights as a fine drizzle came down. His driver looked up as Harold stepped out onto the sidewalk, but a car ride wasn’t going to help his leg, so he sent him away with instructions to pick him up tomorrow morning. The subway was just a few blocks away, so he opened his umbrella and set off.

The subway platform was crowded, families and professionals competing for space on the next car. No one seemed to recognize him, though his cane did prompt someone to make room in the car for him as he was jostled forward. “Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome.”

He held onto the pole next to the door and listened with half an ear to the conversations around him: a nanny juggling three children, co-workers making plans to meet for drinks later, a mother and son going up to Yonkers for a family affair. It was easy to imagine, listening to the susurration of sound, that the Machine might have been better at interpreting their motives than him.

Nathan had once asked if he was the best person to teach a computer about people, but understanding people had never been Harold's problem. They were all too easy to decode: money, lust, power, safety, pride, a short shopping list of motivations behind everything they did. Harold had retreated from the world because the world had been, ultimately, too full of small disappointments. He hadn't meet anyone who truly surprised him in a long time; sometimes, in quiet moments, he pondered the red-headed painter at the riverside, unique in her peace and contentment, but even she couldn't be the perfect person the data had made her out to be.

But in some way, the Machine had started reintroducing Harold to the world; the strange connections between strangers on the street, the myriad unnoticed kindnesses, as well as cruelties, that people indulged in when they though no one could see. Harold had never felt like God, peering into people's lives; but on this crowded train, mashed up against some giggling teenagers and a hulking businessman in a wool coat, he felt some kind of re-entry into the humanity that he'd spent so long observing.

He got out at his stop and made his way to the stairs, gritting his teeth against the pain, but by the time he got to the top it had faded somewhat and he was able to make his way toward home, five blocks away.

It was on the third block that a hand clamped over his face. “Well, well, well, Mr. Wren. Been looking all over for you,” the voice hissed in his ear, terrifying and nauseating. “Got a little message to deliver—"

“Hey, buddy,” And that was someone else; Harold’s captor shoved him to the ground, where he scrambled for the wall, out of the way. A second man was standing in the street, head cocked, watching the first man curiously. “If you’re going to kill somebody,” he said, “Talking him to death isn’t the most efficient way to do it.”

Harold managed to get to his feet, but neither man was paying much attention to him. He should — he should — he couldn't think — what was he supposed to do? Running was out of the question.

"Oh yeah?" the first man was saying.

The second man nodded, sauntering closer. "Yeah. Wastes time. Attracts attention. Not what you want if you're looking to break into the murder-for-hire business."

The first man swung his fist; the second man seemed to block it absent-mindedly. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Someone who learned not to talk about it,” the second man answered.

There was a bewildering windmill of activity; the first man lunged, something shining in his hand, but the second man executed a terrifying-looking maneuver and suddenly the first man was on the ground, struggling, under the weight of the second man’s boot in the center of his back. The second man glanced up. “Could you kick that a little further away, please?” he asked, nodding to the thing that had just been knocked out of the first man’s hand — a gun, Harold realized.

“Oh. Yes, of course,” he said, and toed at it, sending it clattering under a parked car.

“Thanks,” the second man said. “Sorry to startle you, Harold, but it looked like you needed a little help.”

“How do you know—“ Harold started, but the first man tried to roll, and for a moment it looked like the second man was going to fall, but after another blur of arms and legs the first man was still face-down on the concrete, the second man half-kneeling on his shoulder. There was a muffled shout of pain.

“I’m your new bodyguard,” the second man said, and made a sort of twisting motion with his knee; Harold heard a sickening wet crack of bone as the first man screamed. “John Reese. Pleasure to meet you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All thanks go to [worset](worset.tumblr.com), who’s absolutely amazing and has given me piles of information on how the legal system, you know, _actually works_. That being said, I have taken liberties with the workings of the New York State and federal justice systems, so you can assume that anything that doesn’t read true to your own experiences was a deliberate choice. (Also if you've got personal experience with the legal system, I... hope you're not a serial killer?) [judgebunnie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/judgebunnie/pseuds/judgebunnie) deserves all the praise and adoration for a wonderful beta, but all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

> **1790**

“I hate him, I hate this, and I especially — particularly — hate you,” Harold said the next morning.

Nathan sighed and put down his newspaper. He was still in pajamas and that hideous robe Will had bought him at age eleven. “When I said you should come over tomorrow," he said, propping his chin on his fist, "This really isn't what I meant.”

It was, Harold considered, perhaps a little early in the morning for a visit. He glanced at the oven clock: 6:15. No, it was fine. “What on Earth were you thinking?”

“I take it you met your bodyguard.”

“He ripped a man’s arm off last night!”

“Was the man whose arm he ripped off trying to kill you?” Nathan asked, mildly, taking a sip of his coffee.

Harold took a moment to collect himself. He was still in yesterday's clothes, and he could feel the scratchiness behind his eyes that meant he was more tired than his brain thought he was. He’d spent the entire night sitting in his front room, waiting for the police to knock on (or knock down) his door, even though the unmarked car had been waiting patiently on his block, unmoving, as Mr. Reese had hustled him up the street and down one of the alternate entry routes that Harold had _thought_ no one else knew about. "But -- what about that man?" Harold had protested, trying to pull out of his new bodyguard's grip.

"He'll be fine," Mr. Reese had said, unconcerned. "Dislocated shoulder always looks worse than it is."

"He was screaming," Harold had said.

"Sounds worse, too."

Nathan was still waiting for an answer. “Sort of,” Harold settled on, because the only thing worse than Nathan before he'd gotten enough coffee in the morning was Nathan who was _right_ and hadn't had enough coffee in the morning. Any minute now Harold was going to get another lecture about the realities of his strange new world.

“Sort of.” Nathan pinched his nose for a long moment. The oven clock ticked over to 6:16. Finally Nathan shut the paper, getting up from the breakfast table and circling around it to glare down at him. “Look, Harold. As much as I’d love for you to be able to go back to lurking in the shadows you love so much, the fact is you’re _out_. Out in the open — everybody who’s watched TV in the last year knows who you are. People have tried to kill you _two separate times_ , and you’re sitting here complaining that the guy I hired to cover your ass did too good a job?”

He was angry, Harold realized. He’d seen Nathan angry a fair number of times in the past year, though usually he’d been angry in turn, fighting against Nathan’s rage tooth and nail. But this time was different -- they weren't in law offices or court rooms, but in Nathan's loft, where Harold had spent countless evenings and weekends. There was an armchair in the front room that was divided equally between Harold and Will's flatulent cat Hobbes, and he had his own mug somewhere in the cupboard. And in that light Harold could see unhappy lines around Nathan’s mouth that hadn’t been there twelve months ago.

“I’m standing,” was all Harold could think of to say, but it was right — Nathan huffed out a laugh, almost against his will, and went back to the kitchen table to collect his coffee cup.

“You’re going to have to treat your safety like it’s serious, Harold,” he said. “Act like an adult.”

“Adults don’t rip people’s arms off,” Harold reminded him.

Nathan shrugged. “Sounds like the guy deserved it.”

Harold wasn’t going to get anywhere with Nathan arguing that point. “When did you hire him? I thought you'd given up."

“I was told you wanted a wide perimeter.” Mr. Reese was standing in the kitchen doorway — leaning against it, looking like some horrifying cross between an investment banker and rough trade. “So I stayed wide.”

“John, come on in,” Nathan said, waving a hand. “Harold wants me to fire you.”

Mr. Reese lifted his eyebrows. “I’m hurt.”

“I don’t — I don’t want _you_ to fire him — you,” Harold said, not sure who to talk to first. He was surrounded by very tall people. “ _I’m_ firing him. You.”

“Really?” Mr. Reese looked interested. “What are you paying me?”

Harold opened his mouth and closed it again.

“What’s my contracted timeframe?” Mr. Reese continued, drifting closer. “Am I required to step in front of a bullet for you, or just,” and he stopped in front of Harold, much too close, “Rip the arms off of people who are sort of trying to kill you?”

“Harold, _I_ hired him,” Nathan said. “And I’m the only one who can fire him. And I ain’t firing him.”

“You’re going to force me to live under armed guard for the rest of my life?” Harold demanded. He turned toward Nathan and bumped into Mr. Reese, who was still looming. “ _Excuse_ me,” he muttered.

“No problem,” Mr. Reese said.

“If your armed guard hadn't been there last night, the rest of your life would've already been over,” Nathan pointed out. “Look, the fact is, until you’re acquitted — hell, probably afterward, too — you've got the world’s biggest bulls-eye on your back. Anyone who wants their own little mini-Machine, anyone who hates that it existed, anyone with a grudge against the PATRIOT Act is going to be gunning for you. I don’t like it,” he added, holding his hands up. “In fact, I hate it, not least because nobody seems to be coming after _me_.”

“That was the whole—“ Harold stopped, because Mr. Reese was still there, peering at the crossword section of the newspaper. “Could you go — elsewhere?”

“Pretend I’m not here,” Mr. Reese said, pulling a pen out of his pocket.

“He’s signed about fifteen different nondisclosure agreements,” Nathan pointed out. “He can’t protect you if you’re constantly sending him out of the room.”

“What happened to a wide perimeter?” Harold suspected he was whining.

"I can take pictures of you from the rooftop across the street again if you'd like," Mr. Reese offered.

" _What_?"

“Okay,” Nathan said, “I’m making an executive decision. You,” he pointed at Mr. Reese, who looked up from the crossword, “Aren’t fired, and you have my permission to make his life as hellish as you want. And you,” he continued, swinging his finger around to Harold, “Are going home and getting some sleep, because I’m not dealing with you when you’re operating on caffeine and outrage.”

“But,” Harold started, but couldn’t think of an argument. He was exhausted, still shuddering from the feel of fingers around his throat, but even that wasn’t going to push away his need to sleep for much longer. "Fine."

“You can come back at noon. Or two. Three would be better.” He put a hand on Harold’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. Mr. Reese ambled after them. “Now, I’m finishing my coffee, I’m taking a shower, and I am going to pretend you didn’t break into my house—“

“I had a key,” Harold protested, holding it up.

Nathan sighed. “Should’ve changed the locks when I had my chance,” he said. “John, I’m betting Harold didn’t thank you for last night, so: thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Mr. Reese said.

“And here we are,” Nathan said, opening the door. “Get out, come back after you’ve gotten at least six hours of shut-eye.” And he waved them out the door and shut it in Harold’s face.

Mr. Reese clapped his hands together. “I think that went pretty well.”

Harold glared up at him. “I liked you better when I didn’t know you existed.”

“I get that a lot,” Mr. Reese replied. “Look, full disclosure, Harold—"

"Mr. Wren," Harold corrected sharply.

Mr. Reese looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Mr. Wren. I’m not going to make your life hell. As long as you duck when I tell you to, there’s no reason we won’t get along.”

“Well then, in the interest of ‘full disclosure,’” Harold said, holding up two fingers on each hand to claw quotation marks in the air, “You should know that I’m not good at following orders.”

Mr. Reese’s lips quirked up. “That’s okay,” he said. “I am. And my orders are to protect you.”

Harold looked at him, unimpressed. “And do you _always_ follow orders?”

But then Mr. Reese stepped in close again, as if Harold’s personal bubble were something that he could slip inside whenever he wanted. He had blue eyes, Harold noticed; unusual in someone with black hair. “Maybe one day we can find out,” he said. He wasn't looking Harold in the eye, though, when he said it; Harold swallowed and stepped back hastily, because Mr. Reese had been looking at his _mouth_ , and the last time that had happened—

Harold couldn't remember the last time it had happened.

“So,” Mr. Reese said. “Breakfast?”

 

> **1799**

“You didn’t do anything that the government hasn’t tried to do, a few times,” Sam said. “The sticking point is the wire feeds.”

“Which I had _permission_ to tap,” Harold clarified, squinting down at the stack of papers in his lap. There were papers everywhere, scattered over every flat surface of Harold’s living room, including the floor and the grand piano in the corner. Various lawyers and paralegals were muttering at each other, scowling at the paper and pens they had to use while within 50 feet of their own client.

“No, which _Nathan Ingram_ had permission to tap. As you claim. But I’ve looked everywhere; there’s no record of any agreement between Nathan, or IFT, and any government agency. Whatever deal you thought you had, they’re not going to back you.”

“That’s been made abundantly clear to me,” Harold muttered.

“Right now the only good news is that the AUSA is charging you and Nathan together, rather than separately, while your defenses rest on the idea that you should be tried separately. It might muddy the waters enough to put us in a good position, either to get a plea-bargain—“

“Which I won’t consent to,” Harold said firmly.

“—Or a not-guilty verdict,” Sam sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Which I’m going to be honest, Harold, it’d be easier to get a not-guilty verdict if I had something more than you and Nathan telling me different things and you insisting I believe _you_ and Nathan insisting I believe _him_.”

Harold watched him for a moment. “Headache?” he asked.

“Same one I've had for a year,” Sam told him, wry. “Look, we've got a continuance for another month or so, due to your injury, but the AUSA found out about your new job and they’re trying to say that it’s indicative that you’re well enough to stand trial.” He leaned back in his chair, looking exasperated. “You might’ve told _me_ about that, by the way.”  
“I’d hardly call it a job,” Harold said. “Mostly I just sit in a back room while Andre yells at people out front.” He thought for a moment. “Which _is_ a lot like my old job, come to think of it.”

Sam’s eyebrow was eloquent. “Anyway, we’re going to have to start prepping you. I’ll send somebody over this week. The important thing is not to panic.”

"I wasn’t panicking,” Harold said.

“I was talking to myself,” Sam said. He looked up at something in the doorway, frowning. Harold followed his gaze: it was Mr. Reese, wandering down the hallway, watching everyone in turn. He noticed Harold’s glare and waved.

Sam looked uneasy. “Does he always — skulk? Like that?”

“What an apt description. And yes,” Harold added, “He does.”

It was long, tedious hours later that the last of the lawyers packed up and filed out the door; the flashbulbs were all the more jarring against the black evening sky, the soft light of the streetlamps. Kemblowski and Gates was a good firm — the best, according to Nathan when he’d hired them last year. (“I don’t care what you confessed to,” he’d snarled, knuckles white where they gripped the receiver, glaring at Harold through the plexiglass window at the MCC. “You’re taking this lawyer, you’re doing what he tells you, and the next time you try something this stupid again, I’m getting my granddaddy’s shotgun and killing you myself, you got that?”) And Sam had been extraordinary, throughout the charges and arraignment and continuances. But it was a relief to shut the door on them, slide the bolt home.

“So what’s the charge, anyway?” Mr. Reese asked, from about six inches behind him.

“You really need to _not do that_ ,” Harold said, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest. He faced Mr. Reese. “For the sake of my blood pressure, if nothing else.”

“Your blood pressure’s fine,” Mr. Reese said. “You got it checked last week. No problems.”

“How did you manage to get access to my medical records?” Harold asked, halfway between appalled and impressed. If there was anything to be frightened of, Harold supposed, it should be _this_ , the fact that someone like Mr. Reese (although to be truthful Harold still had no idea what kind of someone Mr. Reese _was_ ) could find out the most private information about Harold, when for most of his life Harold had held his very name back from almost everyone he knew.

“I was hired to keep you safe,” Mr. Reese said. “I’d be negligent in my duty if I didn’t check up on the doctors working on you.”

“I suppose I ought to be comforted by that somehow,” Harold said.

What he _ought_ to feel was probably fear, or anger; his privacy had been obliterated, his life pried up by the floorboards. But he couldn't really feel anything but bone-deep satisfaction. There were any number of "2006: A Retrospective" issues of magazines coming out, and most of them had Harold's face on them, not Nathan's. All the stories were about the hidden genius behind IFT; if Nathan was mentioned at all, it was about his newfound status as a punchline. No one took Nathan seriously as the visionary of the millennium. Not anymore, and never again. Whatever Mr. Reese could find out about Harold, whatever the police or the papers could dig up, that was unchangeable.

“So — you don’t know what I was charged with?”

Mr. Reese shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

And that raised any number of additional concerns, but so far every time he’d asked Mr. Reese a personal question, Mr. Reese had done something terrifying like checked to see that his guns (multiple) were loaded or taken Harold through another run-through of what to do if someone set fire to the house or smiled. Harold had called Nathan every evening this past week and every evening Nathan had answered the phone with, “Nope.”

So Harold sighed and said, “The charges are, for the most part, illegal wiretapping. The FBI believes I took it upon myself to hack into the government feeds at listening stations throughout New York City, stations run — do you know what listening stations are?”

Mr. Reese shook his head.

“They’re digital spy centers. They tap cell phone conversations, access camera networks — they… _listen_ , for want of a better term. And they are very, very difficult to hack into.”

“But you found a way,” Mr. Reese said.

“No, Mr. Reese, I did not,” Harold said. “Now, am I permitted to go to sleep, or do you need to sweep my room for assassins under the bed?”

Mr. Reese was still standing far too close; Harold was just about eye level with his clavicle. “I can do a perimeter check if you'd like.”

“Why does everything sound so awful when you say it,” Harold muttered, and sidled past him to the stairs.

“You think you’ll win?” Mr. Reese called after him, when he was halfway up the stairs. Harold turned to look down; Mr. Reese was leaning on the newel. He looked very strange, in the dim light of the hall, his eyes impossible to see and his cheekbone casting a shadow down his face.

“Yes,” Harold said, though he wasn’t entirely sure if that was the truth.

“Because you’re innocent?”

“Goodnight, Mr. Reese,” Harold said.

 

> **1802**

“Hey,” the client said, frowning at where Harold was attempting to pin his trouser cuff, “Aren’t you—“

“He gets that a lot,” Andre said, pulling the man’s shoulder blades straight again; they’d already started to slouch. “Come on, Adam, you’re not going to scam anybody into thinking you’re a big boy if you keep hunching up like that uggo from Notre Dame.”

“Okay, okay,” Adam huffed, staring straight ahead again as he’d been repeatedly instructed. Harold went back to marking the drape of the trouser; the cuff was supposed to just brush along the top of the shoe, and this was proving rather difficult to master with someone as twitchy as Adam.

“Mr. Saunders, I’m sure you don’t want a pin stuck in your ankle,” he said, after the fourth time Adam had shuffled his feet, “Nor do I want to stick a pin in your ankle. But that may be inevitable if you _keep moving_.”

There was a long silence, and Harold looked up; Andre’s shoulders were shaking and Adam’s face was bright red. After another moment, Adam said, “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted. So long as you remain still.”

The rest of the fitting was relatively painless, although Adam looked near tears when Andre presented him with the estimate. “You want a suit that looks like it cost three thousand dollars, don’t you?” Andre told him gently.

“Yeah, but I wanted it to _not cost three thousand dollars_ ,” Adam protested.

“Tough tits, toots,” Andre said, with rather more sympathy than he usually showed to first-time buyers; when Harold rang up the sales for the day he noticed Andre had taken almost five hundred dollars off the price.

“You’re getting soft in your old age,” he observed, waving the paper at Andre, who batted it away irritably.

“You’re getting mouthy in _your_ old age,” he snapped back. “Besides, I was feeling generous. I’m usually inundated with ugly old men who want to bring back the waistcoat and suspenders this time of year. I think your attack dog might be good for business."

Harold gaped at him. Mr. Reese had taken to sprawling out on the armchair at the front of the shop like an extremely lethargic mannequin, absorbed in whatever book he’d stolen that day from Harold’s library. “In _that_ suit?” he asked, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

“It’s not always the suit, Harry,” Andre sniffed, “It’s how you wear it. Although I have to say, that Macy’s polyester doesn’t do him much favors.”

Harold had a feeling he knew where this was going. “No,” he said preemptively.

“But it’s my birthday coming up,” Andre said, hopeful.

“I’ll buy you a plane,” Harold said. “Or a pony.”

“So many jokes to make, I can’t pick." From the front of the shop Harold heard a very quiet chuckle. He gritted his teeth and went back to the accounts.

Mr. Reese was almost halfway through his book of the day ( _Team of Rivals_ , Harold was going to try not to roll his eyes at the triteness of it all) when Harold presented himself a half hour later. “Well?” he said, when Mr. Reese didn’t immediately look up. “Are you ready to go, or would you like to finish your chapter?”

“Sure, thanks,” Mr. Reese said, turning a page. Harold could feel himself scowling.

“So that ‘wide perimeter’ you held beforehand,” he said. “I think it'd be better for both of us if you started doing that again.”

Mr. Reese frowned into the middle distance for a moment. “No,” he said finally, and went back to reading.

Will used to stomp his feet when he was a little boy, getting red in the face and screaming when he wanted to get his way and Nathan wasn’t having it. Never before had Harold felt so tempted to emulate those tantrums. “Why _not_?”

“Because a wide perimeter makes people think you're unprotected,” Mr. Reese said, holding up a finger. He wasn’t even looking up. “Which leads to certain people trying to kill you." Another finger went up. "Then I have to come in and stop them." A third. "And you get really mad when I break people's arms.” He wiggled the four fingers for a few seconds, then turned another page.

"You could always just _refrain from breaking their arms_ ," Harold pointed out.

Finally, Mr. Reese shut the book (dog-earing the page) and stood up, once again curving into Harold’s personal space. “What’s the problem, Mr. Wren? I thought we’d been getting along these past two weeks.”

“What on Earth gave you that impression?” Harold asked, baffled.

In the past two weeks, Mr. Reese had more or less upended Harold’s life. New security measures had been put into place; Mr. Reese had fired Harold’s customary driving company and hired new ones every few days, or sometimes bullied Harold into taking the subway, or a taxi — random patterns, different routes taken each time. He’d thrown away every single item of food in the house the second morning, and installed bullet-proof windows the third.

“Are you charging Nathan for all this?” Harold had asked, tightening his robe around himself when he’d come face-to-face with a phlegmatic crew demolishing his living room rosewood casements.

“No,” Mr. Reese had replied, sipping coffee (he’d installed a _coffee machine_ in the kitchen) and holding up a familiar card. “I stole your wallet the other day and took all your credit cards. Turns out you’ve got a pretty high limit on the American Express. The Visa, not so much.”

Nathan had answered the phone thirty seconds later sighing, “What'd he do this time?”

Harold had tried going to the shop twice by himself; the first time Mr. Reese had caught him before he'd gotten down the block. The second time Harold had actually made it halfway there, speeding in a taxi down Central Park West, when Mr. Reese appeared out of nowhere, _stepping into oncoming traffic_  to stand in front of the taxi. The driver had slammed on the brakes, swearing, as Mr. Reese had calmly opened the rear door and slid in next to Harold.

"That wasn't very nice, Mr. Wren," he'd said, but it had been the first time Harold had ever seen him grin.

In truth it wasn’t these encroachments that were the hardest to bear. Harold had spent most of his life suffering indignities of one kind or another; the indignity of being too smart for the jostling bullies who’d plagued his childhood and whom, he’d assumed, he could escape through the nascent world of computers and technology. But he’d found them there, too, willing to point and laugh. Mr. Reese’s amusement at his discomfort might have been galling but it was hardly unfamiliar.

What was unfamiliar was the necessity of it — the fact that no matter how inconvenient he was, Mr. Reese provided a service Harold could no longer do without. He’d pretended, even after the events of this summer, that there was some way for him to simply ignore the danger that his own reckless stupidity had put him in. But the new windows, the different routes home, and above all Mr. Reese's quiet, maddening presence, were all evidence that Harold couldn't hide from.

"We're not getting along, Mr. Reese," Harold said, pushing the door open. "I'm getting used to you, that's all."

"Might be the nicest thing anybody's ever said about me," Mr. Reese replied, following him out.

There was a young woman on the front steps of the house as they arrived, cringing away from the cameras crowding up against her. Harold opened the car door, only to get hauled back by Mr. Reese. " _Really_?" Harold demanded. "You think she's planning to cut my throat?"

"Just because she's got a briefcase doesn't mean she doesn't have a gun," Mr. Reese answered back. "Lots of women know how to kill people, Mr. Wren."

"I don't think I like this particular streak of feminism in you," Harold muttered as Mr. Reese climbed over him and out of the car. The young woman looked relieved as Mr. Reese shoved the photographers out of her way, and handed something to him. After a moment, Mr. Reese pulled out a cell phone (which he wasn't supposed to have) and made a call, frowning down at Harold.

He hung up, came back down and opened the car door. "Trial prep?" he said.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Gates was sending someone today." Harold blinked up at him.

"And you knew she was coming."

"She's a bit early," Harold admitted.

"And you didn't tell me about this because?"

"It must have slipped my mind."

Strangely, that got a smile. Mr. Reese stepped back and Harold climbed out of the taxi, fending off the photographers who didn't seem nearly as afraid of him as they were of his bodyguard. He got up the stairs and opened the door for the young woman, but when Mr. Reese tried to follow them in, Harold held the door firm.

"See what you can do about getting rid of these people by the time she leaves," he ordered.

Mr. Reese looked like he hadn't heard properly. "You want me to what?"

"Just because they have a camera doesn't mean they couldn't have a gun," he parroted back, and shut the door in Mr. Reese's face. It was unbelievably satisfying. "My apologies for all this," he said to the young lady, who was clutching her briefcase to her chest.

“Oh, it’s fine," she said, though her shoulders were still hunched. "I get it — Sam said it was kind of a madhouse. Fortunately mister, um -- your friend was very good about clearing a path."

"Yes, he's got a few uses," Harold said, and held out his hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Harold Wren, but I suppose you knew that.”

She laughed. It was a nice laugh, warm and friendly. “Yes, I did, Mr. Wren.” She shook his hand. “Anna Lovelace.”

“A pleasure. Please call me Harold.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine. I’ve been reading up on you for twelve months and I have to say,” she smiled broadly, “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Harold.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [judgebunnie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/judgebunnie/pseuds/judgebunnie) for a lightning-fast beta.

> **1802**

Miss Lovelace — “You can call me Anna,” — looked a bit overawed by the apartment. "Wow. So they really weren't kidding when you said you had a nice place."

"No," Harold said, "I suppose they weren't. Would you like something to drink?" It occurred to him that he was getting better at these strange social interactions that had been foisted upon him.

“That would be lovely,” she said, looking relieved.

The prep work was tedious, though Anna smiled a good deal. Harold was reminded, oddly, of his oldest brother training their dog when they were children. "And what evidence did you have that Nathan Ingram had permission from the NSA to build the machine?" she asked, reading off a legal pad that was filled with her handwriting, question marks and underlined words standing out stark against the scribbles. “Sorry, I know it’s a boring question.”

He nodded absently, trying to think of an answer. “I had the evidence of — I'm not entirely sure I understand the question."

Anna pursed her lips, and Harold got another sense of his brother, quickly gone. "I mean, what made you think Nathan actually had a deal with the NSA?"

"Because I heard them discuss it on multiple occasions."

"Harold," Anna said, smiling again, "Were you _spying_ on them?"

"That's probably not a question I want to answer," Harold said, "Is it?"

"Not really,” she laughed. “Did the Machine spy on them, too?”

He should have been prepared, but somehow he wasn’t. “The Machine didn’t spy,” he said, slowly. “It didn’t do anything but compile information — the spying happened at the hands of the NSA, who gave me access to the information they had already collected.”

“So the difference between planting a bug in someone’s office, and, say, you happen to be in the room when someone else plays a recording of what the bug picked up,” Anna said, and scribbled something else.

“I suppose, although that sounds like a distinction Nathan would appreciate more than I would. We both knew, after the attacks, that the government would grant itself far too much power in the name of it’s war on terror. There wasn’t much we could do about that — but we could make their methods effective. Make sure they actually saved lives, rather than just putting people in prisons.”

“We might be able to use that.” She tapped her pen on her sheet, clearly gathering herself for something. “Can I — okay, this isn’t on the sheet, but I have to ask. Do you —— you really think it's been destroyed?" Anna asked.

Harold said, "I don't know. It's in FBI custody, wherever that might be. Certainly it's not online at present.” He took a breath, and then another. Such a harmless question, and one that people certainly would be curious about. But he’d answered with something lodged in his throat.

"Well, sure," Anna said. "I mean, if it were, you probably would've seen those attacks coming." She looked at her watch. "Ooh, okay, I've got to head out. Thanks so much, Harold. You're doing great. I'll be back later this week, all right?" She reached out to shake his hand again, then frowned. "Um, you've got—" she gestured to his shoulder. "Something there. May I?"

"Please."

She carefully plucked something off and held it between her fingers, squinting at it quizzically. "It looks like a, um. A computer chip." Her eyes widened. "Harold, that's in violation of your bail — is this—" she lowered her voice, "Is this yours?"

"Very definitely no," Harold sighed. "Though I'd appreciate it if you'd place it in your glass of water. I'll show you out."

Sure enough, about ten seconds after the door closed behind her (to an empty street) Harold heard deliberate footsteps coming from the kitchen. "I'm going to have to invoice you for that," Mr. Reese said.

"Invoice Nathan. He's the one who hired you. And do you really think it's a good idea to put state-of-the-art tracking devices on me? If I'm found with it, I go back to jail."

"I'm sure you'd think of something," Mr. Reese said, picking up the glass of water and frowning at it. "Besides, you've acquired a habit of running off, and handcuffing you to heavy furniture would probably get me in trouble." He handed Harold a neat stack of envelopes, all opened. "Your mail."

Harold wondered if you could crack a tooth just by keeping your jaw clenched tight. "You think someone's sending me anthrax through the US Postal system?"

Mr. Reese shrugged. "I've seen bombs sophisticated enough to fit inside a catalogue. And I'm sure you'd rather it go off in my face than in yours."

Something about that grated against Harold, leaving a raw, tender mark. "I'd rather no one be blown up, Mr. Reese," he said. The silence wasn't comfortable, but then it never was; Mr. Reese always seemed to be sizing Harold up against something in his head. Harold hadn't yet acquired the courage to ask.

Instead he limped back to the couch and went through the mail. Not much; letters from odd people, requests to speak at two different colleges, and almost as deadly as a bomb: a heavy cream-colored envelope, expensive calligraphy spelling out his name and address, from the IFT Foundation.

"Oh, dear," he sighed.

"Nope," Nathan said when he picked up the phone.

"He put a _tracking device_ on me, this time." Harold knew this was a lost war, but he felt honor-bound to keep fighting the battles.

"I'm probably not supposed to think that's funny, am I?" Nathan said.

"No, you're not."

"Harold, the number of times I've found one of your new bugs on or about my person is easily in the triple digits by now. There's this old saying I'm thinking of—"

"What goes around comes around?"  Harold sat down on one of the kitchen stools; the telephone cord made a lazy arc from where the phone was mounted to the wall. He coiled his finger through the loops; he’d done so as a child, and as a young man. Curious, the memories contained in motions, obliterated by the advance of years and technology but still waiting in the muscle.

"I was thinking payback's a bitch, but sure."

"I wasn't actually calling about that," Harold admitted. There was a movement in the corner of his eye; Mr. Reese, poking at the fruit basket at the counter. Harold put his hand over the receiver. "Do you mind?" he asked Mr. Reese, pointed.

Mr. Reese blinked innocently at him. "Fifteen nondisclosure agreements, remember?"

"Yes. And yet here I am, still telling you to leave the room."

Mr. Reese shrugged, grabbed an apple. “I’ll be around,” he said.

"You should be nicer to him," Nathan scolded.

" _You_ should fire him."

"I thought you weren't calling to whine about your bodyguard."

"Yes," Harold said, and cleared his throat. "I received an invitation to the Gala."

"I know."

Harold frowned at the phone. " _Why_ did I receive an invitation to the Gala?"

"Because you're still technically an employee?" Nathan said, with that tone of voice usually reserved for dealing with one of his stable of assistants. "I know you were a little busy getting arrested and all last year, but you went the year before that."

"Yes. Someone in R&D got sick on my shoes, as I recall. Don't you think it might be a bit controversial for me to make an appearance?"

"Don't see why not. I'm going, and last I checked we were getting indicted together." There was a typing noise on the other end, the murmur of voices; he was still at work, Harold realized. "Look, the Foundation board called and asked us both to come. My guess is that it's good publicity. We show up, I'll shake some hands, you can glare at people who ask you questions, it'll be a harmless couple hours."

Harold hunched in on himself. He was going to give in; it felt as inevitable as his twice-yearly head cold. "I don't glare at people who ask me questions."

"You really do," Nathan said. "Talk to you later."

"So," Mr. Reese said from the kitchen doorway. "What's this Gala I'm hearing about?"

"I sent you out of the room so you wouldn't hear about it," Harold pointed out, getting up to hang up the phone. His leg was worse than usual tonight, sharp and sawing pain that made his fists clench.

Mr. Reese didn't even dignify that with a response; he just waited. Harold wondered when that became an effective tactic; he used to be able to outwait anyone. But after a year of giving all your secrets away — any bit of truth that he'd had lying around — evasiveness was a surprisingly difficult trait to relearn.

"IFT's non-profit foundation holds an event every year. The IFT Gala. It raises money for charity and it's generally considered one of the premiere events of the season."

"What charity?" Mr. Reese asked.

"I don't know. Lupus, possibly. Or cancer. Or something. Events like these aren't really focused on helping people. It's more about dressing up and drinking expensive champagne."

"So I take it you're not going."

Harold said, "You're taken wrongly, Mr. Reese."

That actually seemed to surprise him, which shouldn't have given Harold a tiny thrill of satisfaction. "Wouldn't have taken you for the tuxedo and champagne type."

"And type what would you take me for, Mr. Reese?" Harold asked. "But don't worry, your attendance is not required. There will be plenty of security there to see that the garroting is kept to a minimum."

If Harold’s attendance had surprised Mr. Reese, this seemed to alarm him. “If I’m not going, you’re not going,” he said, firm.

Harold opened his mouth to stridently disagree — no matter how much a misery Mr. Reese had made his life, Harold still did make the decisions in the end — but then he smiled, thinking of Andre’s wistful expression and tendency to let his hands wander during fittings. "Do you have a tuxedo?" he asked.

 

> **1805**

“Mr. Wren,” Mr. Reese said, urgently.

“Mmm?” Andre had mastered the art of talking with pins sticking out of the corner of his mouth, but Harold preferred silence during fittings anyway, the hum of the air conditioner a Pavlovian kickback to sitting amongst rows of servers, teasing out intelligence from software and hardware alike; though more and more Harold was realizing that his first career had probably been the better one. Machines didn’t insist on conversation.

“If something happened right now, we’d be a little bit screwed,” Mr. Reese said, and at least he was confining his remarks to concerns about logistics.

However stupidly. “You’ll think of something, Mr. Reese, I’m sure,” Harold said. "Just hold still."

Andre had, after a great deal of clutching at Harold’s arm and warning him that next year he definitely expected a plane, decided that there wasn’t time to create a bespoke tuxedo for Mr. Reese in time for the Gala on Sunday. “Although thank God, I happen to have a few pre-made.”

“Yes, I know,” Harold had said. “You had me cut for you last week. I was under the impression they were for the mannequins up front.”

“Oh, Harry,” Andre’d sighed at him, “Have you _seen_ your bodyguard lately?”

Mr. Reese had concealed his laugh, badly, with a few coughs.

But standing on the dais, Mr. Reese looked decidedly grim. It might have had something to do with the fact that Andre had checked the fit on the trousers four separate times already, but Harold suspected he was honestly more discomfited by the sheer number of pins poking through the tuxedo at this point.

“I’m losing my touch,” Andre sighed, standing in front of Mr. Reese and frowning thunderously. “Five years ago that thing would’ve fit like a glove. Now,” and he waved a hand, as though to encompass the entirety of his emotional and professional downfall.

“To be fair, most of your clients don’t ask for room to hide a shoulder holster,” Mr. Reese said.

“Excuses aren’t going to make me feel better,” Andre said. “But thanks for trying.”

“He should be flattered,” Harold said, finally getting the last pin out of his mouth and into the cuff, “That you thought his shoulders were that broad.”

“Not my fault he thought Hugo Boss was an acceptable outlet mall choice for his suits,” Andre snapped back, smoothing his hands over Mr. Reese’s lapels. “Those things have shoulder padding fit for a linebacker.”

“You know, this habit you two have of bitching at each other is a lot less funny when you’re bitching about me,” Mr. Reese said.

Andre patted his face affectionately. “We do it out of love, Johnny boy.”

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to be mean, at least have the courtesy to do it behind my back.”

“Sure thing,” Andre said, “Just turn around.”

“Stay _still_ ,” Harold countermanded. “Andre, I’d rather not have to face a lawsuit for sexual harassment on top of all the other legal excitement I’m facing at the moment.” He got to his feet with some difficulty, looking around for his cane; Mr. Reese held it out to him. He grabbed it, but Mr. Reese didn’t let go right away.

“My contract stipulates that I can’t sue you for harassment of any kind, Mr. Wren,” he said, and released the cane. Harold leaned on it heavily as he — he refused to think of it as getting out of range. But when he looked up at Mr. Reese’s face he had a sinking feeling that Mr. Reese knew it for what it was. “Just thought you should know,” he added, and turned in a slow circle while Andre admired.

“He’s going to start a riot,” Andre said, clapping his hands together.

Harold winced, but John just grinned. “In this old thing?” he asked, and shot his cuffs.

“Yes, James Bond, we’re all very impressed,” Harold said, only to be interrupted by the jingle of the front door opening.

It was Detective Carter, accompanied by another man, short and squat with a hangdog expression, and several uniformed officers. “Mr. Wren?” she said, squinting in the dim lighting after the bright sunshine outside.

“Oh dear,” Harold said. “Am I under arrest again?”

Carter smiled. “No, not this time. I’m actually here to — make sure you’re okay.”

“Accompanied by a half-dozen of New York’s finest,” Harold clarified; all the officers had their hands near their guns, eyes shifting from side to side as though someone was going to jump out at the from behind the racks. Harold glanced back at his companions; Andre seemed entertained more than alarmed, but Mr. Reese was tense, the lines of his jacket twisted slightly as he shifted stance. He was probably jabbing himself in a half-dozen places, pins bristling all over the suit, but his expression was blank.

“There’s been a, uh. Development,” Carter said. “And we thought it might be a good idea to make sure nothing had happened to you.”

“ _Should_ something have happened to me?” Harold asked.

The beleaguered detective behind Carter snorted. “You could say that,” he said.

Carter gestured vaguely to him. “This is Detective Fusco.”

“What happened to Detective Stills?”

Carter’s eyebrows dipped; for the first time since he’d met her, all those months ago, Harold saw something to be frightened of in her expression. “He’s dead.”

“I think I’ll go change now,” Mr. Reese murmured in Harold’s ear, a hand on his elbow.

“That might be best,” Harold agreed, then added, “If you don’t mind, Detective?”

“Sure,” Carter said. “Fusco, why don’t you make sure Mr.—“

“Reese,” Mr. Reese supplied, all helpfulness.

“Mr. Reese doesn’t get lost.”

“I’m afraid I’ll need to go, too,” Andre piped up, looking regretful. “Some of those pins are rather privately placed, if you see the problem.”

Carter looked like she wanted to say no, but she nodded. “I really only need to talk with you, for now,” she told Harold as two of the officers followed Detective Fusco, Andre, and Mr. Reese into the back. “You want to sit down?”

“Yes, if that’s all right.” They sat in the armchairs; the officer left with them took up a worryingly defensive stance at the front door. “I’m starting to get rather alarmed, Detective. Can you tell me what this is about? Do you think Detective Stills’s death had something to do with my case?”

“First I’d like to ask you a couple questions,” Carter replied. “Can you tell me what you know about your friend? Mr. Reese.”

“I’d hardly call him a friend. Nathan employed him as a bodyguard for me.”

“And do you know anything else about him?”

“I do, but I’m reluctant to say anything until you tell me what’s going on,” Harold said, as firmly as he knew how.

Carter bit her lip, looked over at the front door. “Last night, Internal Affairs received a recording of call between Stills and an unknown third party; the conversation was sent via email by an anonymous tip. Based on that conversation, they obtained a warrant to search his home, but by the time they got there—“ she stopped, and for the first time Harold noticed the rumpled state of her clothes, the way her hair was impatiently pulled back, the dark circles under her dark eyes.

“You executed the arrest,” he realized.

“IA let me tag along,” she demurred. “But it wasn’t until this morning that they decided to tell me what that phone call was about — turns out Stills was taking orders for a hit.” She lifted an eyebrow. “On _you_.”

Harold realized he was holding his breath. He let it out, carefully. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“Neither do you. Maybe you’re getting used to it, after getting shot this summer and all.” Carter waited for a beat. “Or maybe because since the last time we talked, someone gave it the old college try _again_.” She waited again, then huffed out a sigh. “So, you want to tell me what happened the night after Thanksgiving, or should I tell you what I know already?”

“Ladies first,” Harold tried.

To his surprise, Carter laughed, shaking her head. “You’ve got brass ones, I’ll give you that. Okay, what I heard on the recording was Stills admitting that he’d hired somebody to take you out on November 27th. Not sure if you were supposed to get killed or just roughed up, but apparently the job didn’t go so well, and he contacted this unknown third party to discuss it. And this person — whoever it was — contacted Stills again last night. Said you ‘had to go.’ And that gave IA enough probable cause to execute a warrant. Only turned out somebody’d executed him first.”

“Did you know he was — what’s the term—“

“A dirty cop?” Carter looked away, again toward the front door. “You’re not supposed to say anything bad about your partner. Good or bad, he’s got your back, you’ve got his. But Stills…” she shrugged. “I’ll be going to his funeral on Sunday. Don’t know if I’ll be tearing up much. But a better question is whether or not _I’m_ a dirty cop, don’t you think?”

Harold had never had that instinctive grasp of people, the way that Nathan had; they were hard to pin down without the luxury of background checks and light surveillance, the Machine’s thoughtful hints and prodding when he pointed it in one direction or another. He looked at Carter’s face and saw lines of fatigue and a deep-bone sadness, and said, “Honestly, Detective, it had never even occurred to me.”

It seemed to affect her, for some reason; she blinked and swallowed, but only said, “Flattery will get you nowhere. It’s your turn.”

Just then Mr. Reese reappeared from the back room, back in his bland black suit. “Andre’s about to get arrested for maligning your friend’s tie,” he said blandly.

“Oh good Lord,” Carter muttered, and pushed herself out of the chair. She turned back to Harold. “Come down to the precinct in a couple days for a lineup; I’ve got a lead on who it might’ve been. We’ll get your stories — both of you—“ she added, glaring heavily at Mr. Reese as he came to stand behind Harold’s chair, “And I can add all this to my three-inch-thick folder of all the suspects I’ve got already.”

“What about the investigation into Detective Stills’s death?” Harold asked.

Carter made a helpless gesture. “IA’s taken that out of my hands. Besides,” she added, as the sound of a rather strident argument became more audible from the back room, “I’m getting really curious who it is wants you dead so badly.”

“Who _doesn’t_ ,” Harold heard from behind him, but when he tilted his head up to scowl at Mr. Reese, he encountered only a cheerful smile.

 

> **1807**

"You know, not for nothing,” Detective Carter said, clearing the chair next to her desk and gesturing to it with her hands full, “But you’d make my job a little easier if you actually _reported_ it when people tried to kill you."

The precinct was crowded and noisy, but Carter had a space off to one side, half-shielded by a glass panel. Her desk itself was stacked high with files, mugshot pictures spilling out of folders and at least three cups of coffee in various states of consumption. It reminded Harold, strangely, of his own set-up at IFT, routers and wires crisscrossed and chaos everywhere while he worked on a project.

"I thought you enjoyed a challenge, Detective," Harold said, easing himself down on the chair. Carter looked around for a moment, then with a dissatisfied grumble put the pile of paperwork on the floor by her feet.

“I do,” she said, sitting down, “But I’m not a glutton for punishment. So why didn’t you call it in?”

Harold thought back to that evening, nerves strung to near breaking point and listening to the footsteps of Mr. Reese, doing a twice-hourly perimeter sweep of the house, greeting every suggestion by Harold that they call the police with a raised eyebrow and silence. “I’m afraid I can’t give you a good answer,” he said. “I was — rattled. And Mr. Reese—“ he waved his hand at the hulking figure lurking in the doorway— “Took a certain getting used to.”

“What made him so tough to get used to?” Carter asked, pitching her voice loud enough for Mr. Reese to hear her. “Looks pretty average to me.”

He felt a burst of affection for her. “Things like this,” he said, rummaging around in his pocket until his hand closed around what he’d found stuck in the base of his cane this morning. “Mr. Reese,” he said, waving it at him. Mr. Reese came closer and plucked it out of Harold’s fingers. “One of yours, I presume?”

Mr. Reese just looked at him, and put the device in his pocket. “Wondering where I’d left it,” he said, and nodded at Carter before resuming his stance.

“I see what you mean,” Carter said, frowning at Mr. Reese’s back. She glanced back at him, and a slow smile appeared. “You know, technically I just witnessed you breaking the conditions of your parole.”

“Are you going to arrest me?” Harold asked, more curious than anything.

She shrugged. “Technically it’s your bodyguard’s fault for planting that thing on you, so if I was in an arresting mood, I’d probably go for him.” She chuckled to herself, as if her own nature amused her. "I'd like to arrest him just on generalized suspicion, if you want to know.”

"I wouldn't have a problem with that," Harold told her. "Though Mr. Reese might."

“I’ll bet,” Carter said. “All right, let’s go through what happened that Friday, in your own words.”

Recounting the attack was easier this time; he could remember the details, but not the terror — unlike the shooting, which had been all fear and darkness and blurry confusion. Harold remembered the glint of a gun (“I kicked it under a car, although I doubt it’s there anymore.” “Yeah, I doubt that too,” Carter sighed) and the exchange Mr. Reese had with the would-be killer. “Though you could probably ask Mr. Reese for a more accurate transcript,” he said.

“No,” Mr. Reese offered, “That sounded about right.”

“And then he — dislocated the guy’s shoulder.” Carter frowned at her notes, bit her lip. “You remember which one?”

“Right,” Mr. Reese said. He was still scanning the room, not looking at either of them.

“And then we — ran away, essentially.”

Carter lifted an eyebrow, glanced at Harold’s leg.

“All right, hobbled. But quickly.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Not really. But Mr. Reese—“

“Yeah, I’ll get to Mr. Helpful in a minute,” Carter said. She was still biting her lip. “You know, I think we should move this conversation to one of the interview rooms. A little more, uh. A little quieter,” she finally decided on, and she was scanning the room as well. “Mr. Reese?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Mr. Reese answered, but it wasn’t in the cadence of someone answering to their name — Harold looked back and forth between them.

“Is something happening right now?” he asked, suspicious.

“Harold,” Mr. Reese said, pulling him bodily out of his chair, not looking around anymore but with his gaze fixed on one corner of the room, “I think it would be a really good idea for you to go into that interview room. Right now.”

Carter had him by his other arm, all but dragging him away. “Stupid, stupid,” she was muttering to herself. "Okay, Mr. Wren," she said, opening a door into a grey, cheerless room, with a table and four chairs, a long mirror on one wall — an interrogation room — “You sit tight right here. I'm going to take care of—"

There was a commotion out in the bullpen, and a gunshot, and Harold realized that Mr. Reese hadn't followed them.

“That,” Carter said, and slammed the door shut. There were more loud noises, now muffled by the thick door. Harold tried the knob: it was locked.

After that there didn’t seem to be much choice. Harold pulled out a book (the first week working for Andre, he’d restructured the pockets in all his coats to be large enough to accommodate a small hardback) and lowered himself into one of the chairs. He couldn’t even remember what he’d brought with him; Mr. Reese had hustled him out of the house at seven o’clock and then spent two hours circling around Manhattan before pulling up to the precinct. “Is this really necessary?” Harold had asked testily.

“Careful, Mr. Wren,” Mr. Reese had replied. “People are going to start thinking you enjoy my company.”

The book was older, a blank cloth cover; he recognized it only as one of the countless books he’d rescued from the fifty-cent bin outside the Strand on idle Sundays, books with dust jackets gone and stains along the deckle edges, bowed and creased and well-loved. He’d collected them with far more reverence than the first-edition, mint-condition copies that Nathan presented to him on birthdays and Christmas: they were evidence of something more than the written word — they were evidence of the read word, the labored-over word, the words underlined and highlighted and dog-eared, understood by hands and minds before his. There was a kind of camaraderie, folded into the pages of books like this.

Harold opened up to the title page: The Count of Monte Cristo. He snorted, and wondered if he, too, could make a chisel out of one of the table legs. Hopefully someone would remember his presence in this room before then. He flipped to the Chapter 22 and tried to lose himself in Dantes and the smugglers, but before five minutes had passed the door opened again.

It was the burly, weary-eyed man who had accompanied Carter to Andre’s. “Detective Fusco,” Harold said, putting the book down. “I trust everything is all right?”

“Oh, sure,” he said, sitting down opposite Harold at the table. “Your boyfriend just took out one of our uniforms, but other than that, peachy keen.”

“‘Took out,’” Harold repeated cautiously. “Could you be more specific?”

“He’s dead, how’s that for specific?”

“Mr. Reese _killed_ him?”

“How about I ask you a couple questions, Mr. Wren? That okay with you?”

No one else had come in the room — when the door had opened, Harold had seen no one else in the hallway behind Fusco. There had been plenty of noise, but no people. “Where is Detective Carter?”

“I said, _I’m_ going to be asking you some questions,” Fusco said, and it seemed as though the gun had always been in Fusco’s hand, pointed at Harold’s heart. “Got it?”

“You’re the one Stills hired,” Harold realized.

“Nah,” Fusco said, dismissive. “Your boyfriend was right about one thing — that stiff in the bullpen? You’d probably recognize him if you got up close and personal. Officer Simmons. Nice guy, decorated officer. Jay’s right-hand man when it came to the, uh. Ugly stuff, I guess you’d call it.”

“I’d probably call it murder,” Harold observed. In the mirror, over Fusco’s shoulder, something moved — someone was behind the glass.

“Hey, no,” Fusco said. “Jay said she just wanted you knocked around, maybe teach you a lesson.”

“Teach me a lesson in regards to — what?” Harold asked.

“You know, I’m the one with the gun here,” Fusco pointed out, leaning back in his chair. “I think it’d be smart to shut up and let me do the asking.”

“Yes, but you’re not going to shoot me,” Harold said, and the way Fusco’s jaw went tight and miserable proved him right.

“Says who?” he said, and then the door burst open.

It wasn’t Carter, or another of Detective Stills’s seemingly-endless supply of corrupt officers; it was John, wrathful as winged vengeance, slamming the door behind him and grabbing Fusco by the collar, slamming him face-first against the table as he twisted Fusco’s gun out of his hand.

“Says me, Lionel,” Mr. Reese growled, into Fusco’s upturned ear. Harold pressed his hands flat against the wall, only then realizing that he’d jumped to his feet, out of range. “Now. You and me should have a little chat. Starting with who hired you and your scummy little friend out there.”

“I don’t know — I don’t _know_!” Fusco protested as Mr. Reese’s grip got tighter. “Jay didn’t tell me bupkes — I got a text from him the other night, right before he got killed. Said we were on to deliver the gimp—“ He choked, and Harold saw Mr. Reese’s knuckles go white where they clenched around Fusco’s collar.

“Mr. Reese,” he said, as loudly as he could, which wasn’t very loud at all. But Mr. Reese looked up, and Fusco started breathing again.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Fusco moaned.

“Keep talking, Lionel. Who knows, you might buy yourself some time. Maybe your fellow officers will come bursting in any moment and rescue you. All you have to do is keep talking.”

“Look, I wasn't gonna hurt him.”

“I believe you,” Mr. Reese said, rummaging around in Fusco’s pockets. “If you had, I’d probably have shot the glass out. Which would’ve been awkward to explain.”

Harold looked up at the mirror. “How long were you back there?” he asked.

“Pretty much the whole time,” Mr. Reese said.

“I thought you killed Simmons.”

Mr. Reese looked confused. “Oh, that? No. I punched him in his dislocated shoulder, which refreshed his memory as to who _I_ was, and then he pulled a gun, and after that I figured Carter could handle it. She’s a pretty good shot,” Mr. Reese added, thoughtfully. “I wanted to see who came after you if I left you on your own. I was pretty sure it’d be this guy, and look,” he said, yanking a pair of handcuffs out of Fusco’s blazer pocket, “I was right.”

“You were using me as _bait_?” Harold said.

Mr. Reese looked unrepentant. “If it makes you feel any better, we got the guys who were going to kidnap you,” he said, handcuffing Detective Fusco with what looked like long familiarity. “Now, you just sit tight for a little while longer. Me and Lionel here are going to go somewhere private and have a nice little chat.”

“Hey, screw _you_ , pal,” Fusco spat. “Minute you leave this room you’re gonna have cops so far up your ass they’ll be picking your nose.”

“No, I won’t,” Mr. Reese said, “Because they’re all still staring at the six-inch hole Carter made in your friend’s chest. Everybody’s a little too busy to worry about some little rat like you.” He heaved Lionel off the table and frog-marched him toward the door.

“You just want me to _sit_ here?” Harold demanded at Mr. Reese’s back.

He turned, looking mildly aggrieved. “You’ve got a book.” He was gone before Harold could do more than clench his fists, the door shut quietly behind him.

But not locked; Harold tried it and it turned under his hand, and after a moment he risked peeking out. Wherever Mr. Reese and his prisoner had gone to, they weren’t in the hallway; a handful of uniformed officers hustled by but they didn’t so much as glance at him. There was shouting, and the wail of an ambulance, getting closer; the air felt thick.

Harold grabbed his coat and made his way down the hallway, in the direction he thought might lead him to an exit. He was right — there was the reception desk, deserted, papers scattered on the floor. Harold walked as fast as he could (he’d left his cane by Carter’s desk, but no retrieving it now) and then he was outside, the wind cold but the sun bright, dazzling his eyes. He almost stumbled on the steps.

He took the first taxi he could flag down and gave his address, watching the station’s front doors warily as they pulled away, but they remained shut, and the taxi merged into traffic and they were disappearing into the morning rush hour. He faced forward, let his eyes close for a moment; he could hear the sirens, quite close now, but it was already fading under the hum of cars and buses, the shrill of the driver’s cell phone, the radio that was playing an unfamiliar song.

The clock on the taxi’s display said 9:17 - less than half an hour since Harold and Mr. Reese had walked into the station. Violence seemed to slow things down, in some way, perhaps as an evolutionary tactic (allowing you the illusion of more time? Giving you a greater chance to get yourself out of a situation alive? Hard to say) but he watched the minutes flick by, 9:18, 9:19, 9:20. He couldn’t say what it was that had prompted him to leave — other than the indignation of being told to stay. Perhaps that could have been enough, but watching Mr. Reese slam Harold’s would be captor (killer? Kidnapper?) into the table had impressed upon him at least that Mr. Reese did not give him orders without reason.

He was conscious only of a need to get away; it had been his only defense for so long that it was etched into his very bones. He could no longer run; Janine, for all her bravado and cheerful mockery, had looked serious the last time he gone to physical therapy, when he asked if he would ever run again. The instinct, however, was still there.

The taxi made a left turn. “You’re going to the West Side,” Harold said, raising his voice to be heard — the driver was speaking with someone on his phone in a language unfamiliar to him. “Sir? Hello — _hello_ —“

The driver didn’t respond; he was talking very quickly now, waving with his free hand (meaning that there was no hand on the wheel). He looked sick, _terrified_ , sweat beading at his temple. He caught Harold’s eye in the rearview mirror, then swallowed and looked away, back to the road. He thrust the phone over his shoulder, through the tiny window. “Take it,” he said.

“I can’t,” Harold said. “I — I’m not allowed—“

“They say your real name is Harold Bewick, and you were born in Nebraska,” the driver (Adish Navaad, according to the medallion) said. “They say I will take you to them or they will kill my children. They say my only daughter is outside playing in the park with my wife. Please. Take it.”

Harold reached for the phone, nearly dropping it as they hit a pothole. “Who is this?”

“That’s such a boring question, Harold,” said a voice, distorted by some electronic device, but the cadence was familiar. “But I’ll get to it in a little while. Right now, I want you to promise me you’re not going to do anything silly like jump out of the cab.”

“Why would I promise you that?”

“Because Mr. Navaad’s little girl is really cute, and it’d ruin everyone’s day if she was shot in front of her mom and her sweet old grandma. Ask Mr. Navaad up there what color dress she put on this morning. A cute little yellow one, with pink—“

“Stop,” Harold said, “Just — why are you doing this?”

“To make a point. Mr. Navaad is going to drive you to where I told him, and after that I won’t hurt him or his family. That’s all I need to tell him in order to get him to do whatever I want — the funny thing is, that’s all I need to tell _you_ , too. Isn’t it?”

Harold looked out the window; they were on Park Avenue, heading uptown. “Fine,” he said, and hung up. He took a few deep breaths, then quickly popped the battery out of the phone. “Mr. Navaad, where are you taking me?”

Mr. Navaad tapped on the wheel for a moment, thinking. “I could call the police, after. I could help—“

“No,” Harold said, as firmly as he could. “What’s our destination?”

“They want me to take you through a gate, on the north side of 30th Street near Lexington,” Mr. Navaad said, as though each word were dragged out of his mouth on hooks. “But I can tell someone—“

“They know what color dress your daughter is wearing,” Harold snapped, clutching the pieces of the phone in each hand. “Do you understand? Now, get there as quickly as possible, and afterward, don’t tell anyone what happened.” He forced another deep breath. “But I’d like to keep hold of your phone, if I may.”

Mr. Navaad’s laugh was strangled, false, but he said, “Sure. You keep it.”

*

The gate was open; Mr. Navaad turned into what wasn’t so much an alleyway as a tunnel, scaffolding closing in around them. It was narrow, but Mr. Navaad was skilled, and when he rolled to a stop in front of the only doorway opening there was room enough for Harold to open the door. Harold found himself instinctively reaching for his wallet, but Mr. Navaad held up a hand.

“Meter is off, yeah?” he said. “I will pray for you, Mr. Bewick.”

The tunnel went through the block and out onto 31st; Harold got out and watched the taxi turn east and disappear. Only then did he put the battery back in the phone and hit redial. “What now, Miss Lovelace?”

There was a brief pause, and Anna’s voice came through undistorted, clear if a little breathless. “And here I was hoping to surprise you, Harold,” she said. He could hear her voice in stereo; the door opened and there she was, cradling a phone between her shoulder and her ear, looking for all the world like a multitasking young lawyer greeting a client. “Come on in.”

It was a library — or had been — books along the shelves, in unsteady piles on tables, a few scattered on the floor. Recently vacated, but long neglected; there was a children’s collage along one wall, paper peeling off from where it had been taped up. Anna kicked some books out of the way.

“Sorry for the mess,” she said, putting her phone in her pocket.

“It’s quite all right,” Harold said. He felt odd, as though he were watching himself — surely there was something that should kick in at moments like this, some kind of adrenaline response. Instead he found himself looking around. “It’s an interesting choice for a villain’s lair.”

She seemed pleased. “You like it? The decline of civilization, is what I call it. This library was shut down just a few months ago. Budget cutbacks. I’ve always had a soft spot for libraries. Plus, as you know, it’s a killer location. Oh, can I have that?” She took Harold’s phone out of his hand and took out the battery, dropping the phone on the floor and grinding into it with her shoe. “Can’t be too careful these days, you know? Well — of course you do. You’re the reason we’re as careful as we are, these days.”

“What are we doing here?” he asked, and there it was, that first clench of fear low in his belly. She didn’t have a gun, not that he could see, but she didn’t need one; he had seen all he needed to of her violence in the twist of her heel, the curl of her mouth.

“We’re looking into the crystal ball, Harold,” she said. “Come on, let’s go upstairs — it’s much more comfortable. How’s your leg feeling?”

“It’s fine, Miss Lovelace.”

“Oh, that’s not my real name — but you of all people should know that the name you’re born with usually isn’t your real name, either. You can call me Root.”

The name prodded a memory; some particularly nasty virus, unleashed for fun a few years ago, and a half-dozen other disturbances. All vicious and brilliant and done with little or no reason behind them; purely to poke holes in the system. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure,” Harold said.

“Well, it’s a stressful time for you,” Root said, “And anyway, I should probably apologize for finding out about Harold Bewick.” She lead the way up an impressive staircase, wrought-iron scrolling and chestnut-dark wood handrails.

“I’ll admit I’m curious about that,” he said. The stairs were smooth marble, somewhat steep; she seemed to have no trouble, but it was difficult for him not to grab the handrail for support.

“Is that a note of admiration I hear?” she said, looking back at him over her shoulder. She was flirting with him, he realized. “To be fair, I’ve had almost a year to find out everything there is to know about you. And you still knew it was me before I opened the door — how’d you figure it out?”

“A few things,” Harold said, lurching up the last stair with some relief. They were in a hallway; the bookshelves were in better order here, a window letting in sunlight from a dingy, disused courtyard down below. “You made a remark the other day, how if the Machine were still online, I would’ve known about the attacks on me. But there was only one, as far as you’d know. Unless you had been involved on that somewhat clumsy attempt on my life at Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Root said, looking embarrassed. She pulled out a set of keys and worked on the lock that held a rusty metal grate shut. “But I needed to see what your new bodyguard could do. Turns out, it was easier to just get him out of the way altogether.”

“So you arranged all of this, just to get me here. Why?”

She found the right key, and opened the gate; it rattled in the quiet. “Come on, and I’ll show you.”

Inside the hallway continued on to a dark wood-paneled room, heavy oak desks with heavy oak chairs. But across several of those desks were strewn a dozen monitors, CPUs, keyboards and wires everywhere; as though someone had yanked out the detritus of his old office back at IFT and dumped it here. In one corner the floorboards had been pried up, and a fat rope of cables spewed out, trailing and splitting off all along the floor to connect to various drives, looking like some pernicious monster creeping out of the shadows.

“What do you think? Amazing, the things you can hide by putting them in plain sight — well, you know all about that.”

“What do you mean—“ Harold tried, but she had her hands balled into fists, and when she turned to look at him she looked wild, angry.

“Don’t _talk_ to me like I’m one of them, Harold. That whole conversation at your house, I wanted to _scream_ , tell you who I was, just so you wouldn’t have to break up everything you had to say into little easy-to-understand sentences.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been looking for you my whole life, Harold. Someone like you, who could do the things you can. Who _did_ them, and didn’t tell a soul. For the longest time I couldn’t understand it. How could you keep quiet about what you made for so long?”

“And what is it that I made?” Harold asked.

“An _intelligence_. The Machine — God, it’s the worst name you could have made for it. It’s no more a machine than you are — it must have _killed_ you, when the FBI cut it up and packed it into boxes. Like watching your child get butchered in front of your eyes. No wonder you came forward.”

“I came forward because Nathan was in danger,” Harold said.

Root made a dismissive gesture. “I know, I know. That’s the glitch in your system, Harold — sacrificing yourself for other people, giving yourself up when someone else is in danger, risking your own life. It’s what convinced me you were really the one, not just some patsy Ingram had conned into confessing to save his own skin.”

“What, almost getting killed in front of my own house?”

“Almost, Harold. Almost. If you’d been a patsy, they would’ve made sure you were dead. Oh,” she said, abruptly, “Where are my manners? Please, sit down.” She held out the seat in front of the computers.

“As one of my lawyers,” Harold said, “You understand that this violates the terms of my bail.”

“I hear you’ve got one hell of a law firm working for you, Harold,” Root said, beaming. “It’ll be fine. Besides, by the time we’re done, nobody’s going to be worried about _that_.”

That wasn’t exactly an incentive, but Harold sat down and faced the monitors. “Do you expect me to build you another Machine? Because I can promise you, you’re going to need more than this setup.”

Root laughed, pulling up her own chair, looking for all the world like an eager colleague, bright-eyed and excited. “That’s just it, Harold. This isn’t a setup to build anything. It’s a setup to find it.”

“Find what?” Harold said, carefully.

“Your Machine, Harold. It’s not packed up in boxes at all. It’s alive out there. Waiting for you.”


End file.
